Time slips through my fingers like fine sand, these past two weeks vanishing in an instant. This month barely began, and yet I already feel caught in the gears of its relentless march. I blame the vials. The wires. The endless blinking lights of my electronic captors. I stare too long, and time distorts—a psychological fracture, a slow-burning erosion of my will to create.
Create what, though? More stuff? This world drowns in it. Cool stuff. Stupid stuff. Trash and treasure—indistinguishable, really. And these days, these times, they taste of dread. The end doesn’t sneak; it marches. No, it roars—a vintage locomotive barreling down the tunnel, its steam screaming at me to move. But the light… the light is beautiful. Do I step into it? Or does it simply obliterate me?
I had a rare escape yesterday. A break from the hum and static, up into the Angeles Crest, where the air is sharp and real. I followed the trail down to a full stream, clear as memory. And there, as if conjured, stood a man—an old survivalist, teacher of bushcraft, the art of not just enduring but thriving. He was over 86, still strong, still grinning like he knew a secret the rest of us had forgotten.
He gave me something unexpected. Hope.
This man had seen things. And yet, he remained—unbroken, beaming, alive. Maybe I still can too.
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